


He Loves Me ... He Loves Me Not

by Possibilities



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dark, Dark!Cersei, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Modern Era, OOC, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possibilities/pseuds/Possibilities
Summary: Sometimes we want a fantasy so violently, we allow it to consume us.





	He Loves Me ... He Loves Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the end for Author's Note.  
> This is part 1 of a miniseries (no bigger than 3 chapters max). It is worth noting that neither Cersei or Jaime are related in this story. The fact that they were both orphans is more coincidence than anything.  
> I hope you enjoy!

####  Chapter 1 - Cersei Hill 

**3 Years Before**

Jaime Lannister was head over heels in love with her.

Of that precious information, Cersei was surer than anything else. Ever since they had first laid eyes on each other at the King’s Landing Academy of Art Exhibition, three summer’s ago they had been infatuated with one another. She could lie to herself like she did to her best friend Melara and say that she wasn’t sure what initially attracted Jaime to her, but she knew the truth and late at night she would remember the first time he looked at her, and the first time she had glanced at him. His eyes, his hair … golden and jade, identical to hers; it was as if fate had long ago entwined the thread of their lives inescapably with each other. Jaime was meant to be with her and her alone. This singular thought had propelled her through each miserable day that she could not be with him. It was as if the Gods’ were repaying her for the years of loneliness in the Crakehall orphanage, for all the sacrifices she’d had to make as a child just so she had the money to put a roof over her head when she inevitably left the childcare system. He was the reward for all her good deeds and hardships, and Cersei was unfathomably besotted. No day had gone by since then, that she did not think of him. The first time she had heard his rich voice comment to the bored man beside him on her paintings (“there’s such incredible vividness in that one there … Bronn what do you think?”) as she stood timidly, a respectable distance away, she felt her heart soar. Cersei Hill felt things, with every fibre of her being - her paintings reflected this fact profoundly - and the compliments that he paid her life’s work, made all the heartache worth it. People had been singing her praises for so long that the words had become meaningless – another person in a long list of falsely humble ‘thank yous’ – but when he said them, it was different. Her heart had responded as if he’d worshipped her. From these words onwards, her soul no longer belonged to her; everything she had and everything she was, was inexplicably Jaime Lannister’s. 

After he had congratulated her, with a warm shake of her hand – his fingertips lingering against the throbbing pulse on her wrist and his eyes warmly seeking hers – she had painted all her works in shades of gold and green. Gold lions roaring at green lakes, gold bodies draped in green silk, golden hills against dusky green skies. The colours became more and more nonsensical, the closer they got to each other. What was logic when compared to the illogical, reason compared to the unfathomable?

_What was the mistress, compared to his wife?_

/////

**29 Months Before**

Sometimes she doubted the full extent of his feelings for her. Particularly, in the beginning, Cersei could not comprehend how a man with such a wife as Sansa Lannister (née Stark) could ever be so dissatisfied with his life that he’d love someone else. But as the weeks turned into months and their relationship grew stronger and stronger, his voice ever deep and assured kissed those doubts away. 

Cersei herself had come from nothing. An orphan growing up in Crakehall, she had played truant from school to paint in an old warehouse; education was important but so was making a living and she was well aware that the minute she finished hers, she would be cast out from the orphanage with little but a pretty penny and some rundown clothes to her name. Times were hard, orphans abundant, and the matrons there did not have the room to keep her – not that they would have done even if they could, Cersei’s blunt nature was incongruous to the humility the matron’s enforced on the children, and consequently, they’d come to blows on more than one occasion. So instead she earned whatever living she could by selling her paintings and had then enrolled in the King’s Landing Academy of Art. The scholarship was a gift from the God’s above. It had given her shelter, the time to hone her craft, and the weight of a prestigious institute to her name. No longer was she Cersei Hill, a nothing and nobody from Crakehall, she was Cersei Hill, graduate of the most prestigious art school in Westeros. 

These humble origins scarred deeply though; one cannot help but be shaped by the experiences that you have gone through. Cersei was a scrappy, self-made woman, who had fought through life with only her wooden paintbrushes, her feelings and her devotion to the hope that the future would bring. She was ever conscious that her lot in life had been comparatively low; that her circumstances should have made her weak and insubordinate. Instead, they had hardened her into a fierce lioness devoted to her ambition and driven to achieve whatever goals she had been denied in her childhood. Her life – though seemingly far from idyllic – had been one that prioritised and emphasised the aesthetic value of things. Her own strikingly handsome face had lent her the charm needed for the archaic Masters of the art college to be persuaded for her entry instead of a candidate with a more privileged background. The picture-perfect paintings that were her canvas-born childhood dreams had always been faster to sell than her more abstract, emotive works later on. And what few men she had fallen in love with, had had smiles that warmed and faces that thrilled. Yes, if her life had taught her one thing, it was that - no matter what people preached – looks mattered. And both Jaime (and Sansa) Lannister were the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen. 

At first this had wounded her pride. She had always been pleased with her looks, but this confidence had been knocked when she first saw Sansa. For whilst Cersei’s hair resembled the glowing Sun, Sansa’s burned; and whilst her smile was picture perfect, there was a genuine imperfection to Jaime’s wife’s smile that left it so open and true, and so far removed from her own forced grin. These self-issues had haunted her for week’s when she and Jaime first started seeing each other. Never had Cersei Hill allowed herself to feel jealous of anyone before, and yet she knew that if forced she would murder to be in Sansa’s place. She was unused to being in such a predicament and the wild despair it brought out in her had been reflected in the sad hues and tones that had tinged her paintings.

But Jaime noticed, as he always did. She learned that like her he too was an orphan, brought up near Lannisport for two years before being adopted by the technology tycoon, Tywin Lannister after both his wife and child had died in a car accident two years prior. To know that this was just another – and yet entirely more personal – factor that they shared further convinced Cersei of how much he belonged to her, not his northern bride. And if she ever became unsure of the fact, Jaime would whisper to the night air just how much he loved her, how much he wanted her, how they were made for each other. And somehow the more he said it the more she believed it, until she no longer compared her looks or societal rank to Sansa, only their current position in Jaime’s life. 

The closer the two lovers became, the harder it was to keep apart. Within weeks, the allurement to see each other became too much to handle, and so they found scheming ways to be closer to each other. As a general in the Westerosi army, Jaime lived in an affluent neighbourhood of King’s Landing outside of the Oldtown walls, near the historic tourney grounds. Her less affable means meant that she resided further in the city centre, near Cobbler’s Square. The distance between the two locations was sometimes tedious and long to overcome. 

It was her idea at first; she’d been visiting his house when she’d come across the advertisement on a street light nearby. Stannis Baratheon – Jaime’s next door neighbour – was looking for a babysitter for their young daughter Shireen, following the divorce settlement with his estranged wife, Selyse. The situations couldn’t have been more perfect. As a judge, he was frequently required to work away from home so needed extra care of Shireen when she was there, or house sitting when he was away for work and his home vacant for extended periods of time. Getting the position had been heavenly; now nearly 3 days out of the week both she and Jaime were separated by merely a fence. Shireen was a quiet, obedient child who was often in bed by 9, leaving Cersei free for the rest of the night. She’d open the kitchen window that backed onto the garden by Jaime’s house and wait for him to do the same. And then later on, after the upstairs lights in his house had been switched off, he would return to the window opposite and whisper sweet nothings at her into the inky black of the night, his wife long since asleep upstairs. She’d keep the lights off in Stannis’ kitchen in case Sansa awoke, despite the fact that sometimes in her more spiteful moments, she wanted the northern bitch (as she privately referred to her) to know that her husband loved someone else.

On one particularly memorable occasion, not long after she’d started babysitting they had both gotten drunk – he on his own neat whisky, and she on some spiced rum she’d stolen from Stannis’ cabinet. The heady intoxication they felt from the liquor had combined with the late heat of high summer to leave them both feeling particularly daring. He was the first to initiate it, though she knew, he knew, she was watching. She’d heard his breathing pick up, the sound of his throat swallowing another shot, and then finally the sound of his fly being undone. He’d murmured desperate pleas and gravelly moans into the night and her body had longed to climb out of the window, cross the fence and mount him right there on his kitchen floor with Sansa sleeping in the room above. It was then the light switch flipped back on and she’d seen him, his hand down by his crotch out of sight from her view, presumably working his length back and forth, all the while his green piercing eyes staring at her standing there in the inky darkness of Stannis’ kitchen.

Her mouth had gone dry. 

It was the most arousing sight she’d ever seen; her lover stroking himself to the sight of her. So close and yet untouchable. Quick as lightning, she found a chair and hitched her skirt up her legs to tease two fingers across her clit. The mutual hiss that permeated the night air was as quiet as it was desperate. He couldn’t see her due to the lights she had to keep switched off, but he could hear the sounds her wet cunt made and that was all that mattered. They’d stayed like that, two voyeurs in the thick of the night, desperately touching themselves until finally reaching a subdued peak – enough to satiate but never fully satisfy. 

This risky game had started a chain of events. Every night that she was there at Stannis’ house, she would eagerly wait for their game to start. The nature of their lives meant that more often than not, it was the only time they could get for each other. Jaime was more vocal than she was, and would let out a string of curses and praises throughout gritted teeth whenever they wanked. Cersei knew her place, she knew she couldn’t make a sound for fear of Shireen so she often had to bite on her hand to remain silent. It was enough at least for Jaime to just know she was there. 

Sometimes on days when she was babysitting later that day, not wholly satisfied with just the night time encounter, she would visit the barracks and drop off food for him. The new receptionist on duty – a dear, sweet woman – would always greet her with a jovial ‘Good morning Mrs Lannister!’ It had been her own personal joke at first. Sansa never appeared to any of the military events, much (she gathered) to Jaime’s chagrin. She’d heard him talk it over with on the phone to his friend Adam at work. It hurt her, to know that her love was upset because of his wife’s negligence. Cersei was prepared to go, so why wouldn’t Sansa? In light of this, the first time she’d visited, she informed the new receptionist she was Jaime’s wife. She’d leave whatever she’d bought at the desk with the receptionist for him and then return to college, full of the anticipation that she’d see him with the present she’d bought him when he returned to his wife. As she tended to Shireen she would hazard glances through the window into his house, thrilling at the small contented way his face would light up as he brought the gifts home; casually munching on any food she gave. Sometimes, if Sansa saw him eating he would offer her some of his spoils and Cersei would feel the smile slip from her face. She knew deep down that he couldn’t not share them with his wife, but it soured her attitude nonetheless. 

It wasn’t the ideal situation, but between the two of them, they made the best of it and that was enough for now 

/////

**3 Months Before**

She’d been crying all morning. Surely that must be evident to Melara as she cautiously settled herself into the leather armchair opposite her. At this time of the morning the coffee shop was bustling with loud occupants, so Cersei knew there was no chance of being overheard by anyone who could know either Jaime or Sansa.

“What happened,” Melara whispered aghast “you look awful!” she reached out with a gloved hand, cool to the touch from the frosty weather to hold Cersei’s shaking hands. On any other day she would have cared what Melara thought of her appearance, but she was too distraught – and too hungover. She’d spent all night drinking cheap vodka hastily bought from a local newsagent and when that wasn’t enough, she’d smoked the emergency joint she kept stored near her college artwork. She hadn’t felt the need to smoke in years, not since she had met Jaime. But the sight she had witnessed last night had repulsed her so profoundly that she needed anything she could grab her desperate hands on to forget about it. It was almost as if she had been overtaken by a temporary sort of madness. She’d felt a thick cloud of despair overcome her vision, too close and physically choking her. Usually under such distressing circumstances she would immerse herself in her art to calm her down, but Cersei knew that if she’d dared attempt to paint, the only thing that would have made it to the canvas would have been a watery mixture of tears and slashes from her broken nails. The alcohol had dumbed her senses but half a litre down she was forced to acknowledge it had done nothing to alleviate the internal pain she felt, instead it had only made it more acute. The joint had helped for some time, the sheer monotony of taking several deep drags had harkened her back to the days when she used to smoke in parks with her college friends – when times were easier and simpler and there was no Jaime, no hiding or no Sansa, just her ambition and her art to worry about. She soon regretted it though; the whitey had been huge, and she was unprepared for the nausea. Waking up with such a splitting headache only served to remind her of the bitter truth that now both she and Jaime had to deal with: 

“She’s pregnant,” she gritted out in a haggard voice. At first Melara only looked confused so she offered further clarification.

“Sansa. His bitch of a wife,” she barked out. If it was possible for Melara’s eyebrows to raise so high up her forehead they could leave it, then that would have been the moment she achieved such a feat. There was a moment of speechlessness as they waited for the gravity of Cersei’s words to settle between them. Eventually there was an audible gulp from her friend before she opened her mouth to speak. 

“Sansa …” she tested out, still clearly shocked “so that’s her name.” 

“Yes.” Cersei gritted out. Melara had the annoying habit of considering herself above extramarital affairs. As such she had sort to purge herself of her best friend’s ‘indiscretion’ by seeking to know as little as possible about the delicate matter in question. Cersei prepared herself for the routine chiding she could always expect from Melara regarding her and Jaime. Indeed, in her eyes she fancied she could already see a glimmer of reproach. 

But it would seem her wayward appearance was instruction enough that today was not the day for her best friend to lecture her on morality. Instead Melara settled for a tentative squeeze of her hand and a gentle “oh Cersei …” It could have been construed as condescension, but it was the only comfort Cersei was going to get now that Sansa was pregnant, so she took it gladly and settled for a squeeze in return. No one else except Jaime knew about the affair, and he certainly was not going to be a massive comfort given that it was his child currently fattening his wife’s stomach. 

“This must be awful for you honey,” Melara whispered “how do you know?” Cersei bit back another sob, as Melara’s soothing gave way to a fresh round of tears. This had been the real sting. 

“I saw them,” she choked out through bitter, ragged breathes, her voice thin and reedy. “They were out by-,” breathe in breathe out “B-Baelor’s Square and I’d gone to do some shopping and there they were … he had his arm around her shoulder and she,” Cersei had to pause for a second to recollect herself. She never let herself lose control like this – not in public at least – and she was becoming increasingly aware she was no longer in her flat by herself. 

“And she?” Melara gently prompted. She felt the rage flare up in her at the mere memory of the most unfair moment of her life. 

“She looked at least 5 months pregnant,” she was so angry, so distraught she could barely speak. She watched as Melara’s shoulders sagged in understanding and her eyebrows pulled together in sadness for her betrayed friend. 

“He’s had nearly half a year Mel,” Cersei whispered “and he didn’t even hint at this once. What was he gonna do? Wait till the baby came and then tell me he was a dad now?” she dragged the back of her old fleece sleeve across her nose. 

They sat like that in silence for a good 3 minutes - Cersei sniffling and rocking herself back and forth and Melara stroking the back of her hand with her thumb. 

Melara was the first to break the silence. 

“Cers …” she didn’t get much further before Cersei cut her off recognising the tone of her voice. 

“No.” 

“You don’t know what I was going to say!” her friend protested. 

“You were going to say that ‘maybe this is a sign that I should end things and move on’. That ‘I should leave him now that he’s starting a family.’” The only thing her argument was met with was silence. Cersei sighed removing her hand, there was no space between them for consolidation anymore. 

“I can’t leave him,” she spoke with conviction despite the sniffling. “We are part of each other, we belong together. I physically can’t leave him.” Melara didn’t have much to say to this. And Cersei knew that anything she did have to say, would only be met with an argument and neither woman had the strength or the inclination to fight in that moment. 

“I love him Mel. I love him, I love him, I love him,” she reaffirmed, “And I hate his wife.” 

/////

**3 Weeks Later**

It had been the first time she’d seen him in a while. He looked so beautiful standing there in the dimmed light in a form-fitting tuxedo - so beautiful she could slap him. These past few weeks had been agony - an agony made worse by the fact that Jaime had done nothing to broach the topic of his heavily pregnant wife with her. She was furious with him. She was distraught. And the combination of the two brought out the very worst in Cersei Hill. Her recent mood had been too anarchic to paint so she’d whiled away the days, day drinking in her grubby flat; the pile of empty beer bottles constructing a shrine to her self-pity and her despair. 

She knew she’d have to turn up tonight, it was too prestigious an opportunity to pass; the National Army were hosting a charity ball and auction to raise money for ‘Kingsguard’ a charity founded to help the families of those that had fallen overseas, or brave soldiers that had returned and were in need of both mental and physical support. A trio of paintings she had done a couple of years back - abstractly depicting Jaime in the field of combat - had been selected as one of 10 prizes to be auctioned off that night, upon the recommendation of an old professor of hers. This was arguably one of the biggest platforms her paintings were going to be displayed upon; to not turn up – regardless of how ill she felt – was out of the question. 

There was another reason, she dared venture out; there was a high chance, Jaime would be there that night, and they needed a serious discussion. Which, she privately concluded, should consist of nothing but him grovelling on his knees in apology, whilst she raged at him the depths of everything she had been subject to the last few weeks as a result of his deception. His absolution had already been granted, but Jaime didn’t need to know that until he had shown her he was the pinnacle of remorse. Only after this was Cersei Hill quite certain she could forgive him. 

But then she had seen him, standing under the chandeliers of the hired ballroom, very much alone and looking so beautiful it hurt. And all her anger had melted away, all the nervous withdrawal energy disappeared, leaving her heady and light. His eyes sweeped the room and locked with hers and finally, after 3 weeks, Cersei Hill could breathe again. Any chance of her demanding his begging apology was gone after that. 

Further adding to the injustice of it all, during the course of the night, the winner of her auctioned paintings turned out to be none other than Jaime Lannister himself, for a huge 21,000 dragons. She would have given him every last work of hers for free, but it thrilled her that he would willingly pay so much for them. It was the closest thing to a public declaration of love they could ever have whilst he was still married. And touching him when he shook her hand upon collecting his prize in front of all his colleagues made her want to melt to the floor. His eyes twinkled knowingly as they sought hers, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her heart. He leaned in to whisper to her ear over the sound of polite applause and she forgot how to inhale. 

“They’ll look lovely on the wall in my house,” he whispered, the stubble on his chin scratching her jaw, her hand still firmly clasped in his. The sentence thrilled her; his mistress’ paintings on the wall in his wife’s home. She wondered if Sansa would ever be able to tell that it was her husband depicted so bravely in the canvases that now adorned her walls. Decorum had meant Jaime had had to release her far too soon, and so with a jovial wave to his friends he had descended off the makeshift stage back to his table, leaving her on the stage pining after him. 

It was several hours afterwards before he approached her again. The new receptionist at his work may know who she was, but these were Jaime’s colleagues and to them she was just the up-and-coming artist who supplied the auction lot. They couldn’t be seen together here as much as it twisted her gut to admit it. As long as Jaime was married to his northern bitch, then she could never take her rightful place by his side. 

He’d cornered her by the champagne table. She’d only had one glass on this occasion, the consequence of her long drinking binge had left her desire for alcohol somewhat decimated and the headache that pounded through her was near dizzying. 

“There you are!” he exclaimed when he found her, his hands open in a friendly, cordial greeting, but his eyes keenly seeking hers with much greater warmth. 

“Mr Lannister,” she said breathlessly. The room was warm … far too warm. The high number of people in the ballroom had raised what had been polite chatter to a near deafening raucous. Army officers were not quiet people, it would seem. 

“Jaime, please. I’ve just bought some of the finest paintings I’ve ever seen from you, we should at least be on a first name basis, don’t you think?” He was so good at this., so good at neatly meandering his way through the intricacies of what was socially acceptable. Every sentence was carefully crafted so that they could at least resemble what they were like when they were alone, without condemning themselves. 

“Of course, Jaime,” she responded, her lips carving his name like a prayer. 

“They really are beautiful drawings,” he continued standing close to her side now, his proximity increasing her light-headedness, “they reminded me so much of my time in service.”

_He knows they’re of him._

“I’m glad,” she responded as teasingly as she could manage with such a pounding headache, she wasn’t missing this opportunity to play pretend for anything “I had insider information to help me capture the subject matter.” 

Jaime reached by her to grab a glass from the table behind her, and she didn’t know whether it was this close proximity that was the final tipping point, or the previous gulp of champagne. Or maybe it was just that over the course of the three weeks since she found out about Sansa’s pregnancy, Cersei had barely been able to stomach any food. 

Regardless of the cause, the buzzing in her ears and the numbing of all her senses hit her so violently, she staggered into Jaime. She only had time to recognise his strong arms catching her shoulders, and hear his voice cry her name in shock before she lost consciousness. 

She awoke some time later in a dark car, hurtling through neon-lit streets. The receding dull ache at the back of her head must have caused her to whimper because his voice was one of the first things she was made acutely aware of. 

“Oh thank the Gods!” Jaime groaned “no one had any idea of what was wrong with you. You were out for quite some time.” 

She shuffled herself out of the slumped position she had been laid into and turned to face him. His eyes flicked rapidly between the road and her face, searching for any signs of distress. She watched his hands clutching the steering wheel tightly, the speedometer indicating they were quite a bit above the speed limit. _He’s worried_ she realised. 

“Are you okay?” Jaime continued to question, “you’re not still in any pain, are you?” Cersei felt a tentative smile resurface on her lips at his concern. 

“I’m alright,” she said her voice croaky from disuse. “Too much warmth, not enough food or water. I haven’t slept well recently with worry so that probably didn’t help.” She watched as his hands relaxed on the steering wheel and smirked to herself – by the Gods how she loved this man. 

“Worry?” his deep voice soothed “is everything alright?” 

She considered telling him that she knew the truth, the words were there on her tongue ready to take flight. But the look on his face made her force the sentence to remain unspoken. He was here. She was here. And this was one serene moment she could not bring herself to ruin. For once they had each other and everything was good, and the memory of Sansa Stark (she refused to think of her as Sansa Lannister) was not going to take this from them. 

“Just stressed about how the auction would go,” she substituted instead. At this Jaime laughed. 

“You don’t have to be stressed about that! Everyone loved them, I in particular … but you already knew that!” he teased her lightly. And with a grateful smile, they fell into an easy silence, watching as the late-night world floated by. The comfortable silence was interrupted by Jaime not 3 minutes later, for following his years of service he had developed the habit of feeling uneasy in any extended period of quiet. 

“Sounds like you need a holiday,” he suggested with a quick look at her. The exhaustion from her earlier feinting spell, combined with the minimal hours of sleep she had had recently meant the thrum of the car engine was causing quite a lethargy to descend upon her. She could only contribute a non-committal ‘hmm’ in agreement – a holiday would be lovely, but right now with rent debts piling up it wasn’t exactly something she could afford. 

“I’d kill to be lying on a beach in Lys right now,” Jaime offered, clearly not letting it go. The look he shot her from the corner of his eye, had her heart thumping. _He mean’s the two of us_ , she realised. The thought of a blissful few days away together, where they could pretend to be truly a couple had her thrilled. Too stunned to trust her voice she only offered a breathless smile and a rapid nod of her head. Jaime laughed at her almost childlike response and in that moment, he looked as free and young as she had ever seen him – the flashing streetlamps illuminating his profile as he repeatedly glanced at her.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” he queried after a while and she heard the silent question in it: _at your house, or at Stannis’?_

“Cobbler’s Square, Jaime.” She whispered. The events of the night had taken their toll and she was too tired to contemplate going to Stannis’ now. Whilst she was meant to be house sitting, one night to herself wouldn’t hurt. She watched him nod in understanding and all too soon they were pulling up down the street from her house. 

“Thank you for the lift, Jaime,” she whispered. She looked at him, contemplating kissing him for a second, but the sound of drunken laughter from down the street alerted her to the fact that her gossipy neighbours were around – the very reason Jaime never came to hers in the first place. 

“It was my pleasure Cersei,” he said in response, voice low, his full meaning clear. God that tone always made her wet. 

She bid him goodbye, watching him speed away into the night back to his wife, before hurrying up to her flat and throwing open her laptop. The screen had been lit for barely a second before she was rushing to type in ‘hotels in Lys’, the biggest grin imaginable, spread across her face. 

/////

**5 Days Before**

No sooner had the knock on the door ended than Cersei flew over to it, a smile so wide it looked almost deranged on her face. Ushering Melara into her messy flat, she forced her into the sitting area and down into the sofa, before rushing back to the miniature kitchenette to make two cups of scalding coffee. Choruses of ‘guess what, guess what’ and ‘you won’t believe it Mel’ were scattered behind her in a flurry so harsh, her punctual friend was positively dazed. 

Melara, who was in decidedly less of an excitable mood than her friend calmly set aside her coat on the couch beside her before turning to eye her friend, one eyebrow suspiciously raised. 

“What will I never guess, Cers?” she said, tone abundantly curious. Neither able to contain her happiness or the words themselves as she poured the coffee into two mugs, Cersei blurted them out before she could even stop them. 

“She’s only gone and had a miscarriage, hasn’t she!” she said laughing in wonderment at it all. 

But the only sound she was met in response with was silence. It would seem the hearty jubilation she had anticipated from her friend was nowhere to be found, and this irritated her immensely. 

“Well,” she near demanded as she handed a mug to a stunned Melara “didn’t you hear what I said?” 

Melara’s mouth opened and closed several times, as she thought through what she was about to say but Cersei’s impatience got the better of her again; if Melara wasn’t going to say anything, then Cersei was going to continue on with her story. 

“And the even better part was that last night, as I was babysitting Shireen – you know Stannis Baratheon’s little girl – well when I was babysitting her, I saw Jaime leaving the house! They were arguing about something and then the bitch – honestly the nerve of that whore – she threw a suitcase at him and yelled something about him ‘not showing his face again’ or whatever!” She broke off into almost hysterical laughter again. Cersei had waited three years for Jaime Lannister and his wife to separate and now, here was the evidence laid out before her. Sansa Stark had had a miscarriage and that seemed to have been the final straw between the two of them for her beloved Jaime, who surely by now had realised all the time he had wasted in such a toxic relationship. Sansa wasn’t there for him like she was, Sansa couldn’t give him the love or care he needed, and now it seemed that she couldn’t even give him a family. Cersei knew that her thoughts were bordering on malicious, but the incredulity of her wishes being granted had given her a self-satisfied, self-validated hindsight which she now inflicted on every scenario between Jaime, herself and his soon to be ex-wife. How could she be accommodating to a woman who had been the sole cause of so much grief in her life for the last three years? She had spent so long associating Sansa Stark as the root from which sprouted all her problems, that one lousy miscarriage was not going to change her opinion. But from the way Melara’s eyebrows were raised and her mouth still gaped like a fish, she was more hesitant to see things this way.

“Cersei …” she firmly started, and Cersei recognised the tone of reproach in her voice.

“Oh what’s the fucking matter?” she barked harshly. She’d been so thrilled to hear the news, but Melara’s condescension was draining her of all the joy she had previously felt, leaving her only bitter. 

“Cersei, this woman has had something awful happen to her. And I guess by extension it’s awful for Jaime as well. Surely you must understand that she must be distraught right now?” it was a carefully constructed sentence – Melara had witnessed Cersei’s notorious rages first-hand after all – but it did nothing to alleviate her irritation. Cersei got up quickly and stormed back to the kitchenette. Her annoyance was rushing through her in hot flushes, the room too warm to contain her anger. Angrily shucking her jumper, she went back to searching among the cupboards for something to occupy herself with, anything so that she didn’t have to stare at the criticism etched into her best friend’s face.

“I don’t care Mel,” she near on shouted as she rummaged through her cupboards (surely there was something she could make?) “I don’t care. This woman gave me hell, she deserves it.” 

“She’s done nothing but love her husband Cersei Hill!” 

“She doesn’t love him! She never visits him! She doesn’t turn up at events! She goes to bed early so that they aren’t even together at night!” her chest was heaving with the injustice of it all, as she turned to face Melara, her index finger pointing at her chest.

“But I love him! I would always be there for him! Others take me, I’d never leave his side if I could! And it’s she who gets to be with him, Sansa Stark who doesn’t even deserve him” she roared as Melara got up to join her in the kitchenette, and it was only then that she realised that angry tears were pulsing down her face in deep rivulets, their tracks scalding her ruddy cheeks. 

“I know this, Cersei, I know this but – by the Gods Cersei what happened to your arm!” Melara asked looking down at where her waist was now revealed by her hitched up t-shirt, “and your hip! Others take me, that looks awful-“ Cersei held up a hand to stop her.

“It’s nothing, I fell off my Vespa the other day whilst riding around the city. I’ve been putting cream on it and all that crap, it’ll fade. And don’t try and change the subject! Look I get it, but I’m happy Mel. I’m so fucking happy. This is finally our chance to be together, don’t you see?” Melara looked unconvinced and a little reluctant to leave the purple, grazed bruises that covered her arm alone. In her anger, Cersei had forgotten she’d tried to hide them to begin with. At the sound of her phone going off in her back pocket, Mel moved away from Cersei, back to the leather sofa to check it. Cersei, recognising her friend’s behaviour as her imminent acquiescence, could taste sweet victory on her tongue. Melara was never one to admit when she was backing down from a fight, rather she just ceased to acknowledge that any such disagreement had ever taken place; it was her way of reconciliation and whilst ordinarily it soured the smugness Cersei would have gotten if she had had an outright acknowledgment of her win, in this scenario she was too relieved to care. She had her friend’s support again.

“I’m happy for what this might bring about for you, but I still think you should just be cautious” she said whilst glancing at her phone but Cersei was too happy to care again.

“I love him Melara, and you know this is right! We’re finally going to be together after 3 fucking long years. Just celebrate with me in private at least … Melara?” she started but at the woman’s newly resurfaced dumbstruck expression she trailed off. Her friend stood there frozen in the living room, staring at her phone screen in utter shock. 

“Melara what’s going on? Can you please just pay attention to this, not your phone right now?” but her query was cut off by her friend looking at her with knitted eyebrows and an ashen complexion.

“Your Jaime …” she started and Cersei’s heart flew at the words ‘your’ despite the newly tense situation, “he’s the son of Tywin Lannister right?” she said, though Cersei knew the questions were irrelevant; Mel was only confirming facts she already knew the answers to. 

“Yes,” she gulped “yes he is. Mel what’s happened, tell me!” but the only response her friend could give was to hold out her phone. Cersei surged forward to snatch it from her outstretched hand. She’d barely finished reading the headline article shown on the screen before she was grabbing her phone and running out of the apartment, her utter caprice incapable of producing tears again so quickly. How the God’s must truly hate her, for the minute one door opens, they slam it in her face again. 

_[Jaime Lannister, son of billionaire entrepreneur Tywin Lannister, arrested for assaulting journalist Ellaria Sand]_

/////

**3 Hours Later**

She was used to being unable to do anything regarding her relationship with Jaime – such was the eternal plight of the mistress - but never before had she felt so powerless. Not two minutes after she had arrived within the vicinity of the police station that her detained boyfriend was being held in, Sansa had arrived, thus forcing her to hide in a nearby coffee shop like a gormless fish. 

The following two hours had been the most sickening of her life.

She’d purchased a coffee so that she could remain in view of the station doors but the thought of consuming anything at all made her want to dry heave all over the floor, so the beverage was left to turn cold and stale on the table in front of her. She spent the time madly flickering her eyes between the station doors and her phone – on which she had furiously searched Jaime’s name and was now devouring every single news story that loaded. The compilation of her findings had yielded thus; Ellaria Sand had visited the barracks earlier on that day, and that whilst walking home Jaime Lannister had (allegedly unprovoked) repeatedly hit her whilst screaming nonsensical insults. Several “witnesses” had subdued him whilst another called the police and Jaime had been handcuffed and escorted away from the scene not 20 minutes later.

Not in her wildest dreams could Cersei constitute how such a scenario had become reality. Whilst she was well aware that Jaime was a soldier and highly capable of taking a life, he had not that disposition which allowed him to baselessly hit anyone, let alone a defenceless woman. Never once had he raised a hand to anyone that was not a threat to the safety of Westeros. This confusion unsettled her greatly and only served to heighten the churning feeling in her belly. Her throat and jaw ached with the combined effort of subduing her tears and struggling to keep what little food was in her empty stomach down. There was something grossly wrong and she could not put her finger on it. 

Finally, when her nails had been gnawed to the bed, Jaime had emerged from the station on bail (she had later learned), his shell-shocked wife leading him away. By now, a small contingent of reporters had gathered around the entrance, desperate to catch a photo of the billionaire’s son in disgrace - news had been slow recently and this would undoubtedly make the front page. 

Cersei let out a cripplingly deep breath before hastily leaving five dragons on the table and rushing back to her flat. 

/////

**2 Days Before**

The last few days had obscured together into one disorientating madness; her reality comprised only of the sleepless nights she was subject to, the combination of spiced rum and toast that she consumed, and her own increasingly illogical thoughts. It hurt too much to be sober. Melara had called approximately twice a day but these had largely gone unanswered; Cersei hardly had the throat to answer the call, let alone prolong a conversation. These calls and the switch between light and dark outside were the only real notion she had of any time passing. In the end she had decided to leave the old, run-down TV in the corner on, regardless of the hour, just so that the silence didn’t accelerate what felt like her own impending madness. Aside from grabbing another slice of toast, or going to relieve herself, Cersei didn’t move from the decrepit couch in her living room, completely dependent on the warmth her blankets provided as the sole form of comfort she received.

On this night in particular, she had been paying more explicit attention to the TV screen. 

She was on there, Ellaria Sand.

Cersei raised the bottle of Tyroshi rum to her lips again and swallowed hard, allowing the edges of her vision to haze and her head to feel hazy. The woman in question was clearly tall as she walked along the pavement of a neighbourhood, her short, weightless bob bouncing around her head every time she took another purposeful stride.

Cersei Hill did not feel weightless. 

The crowd of reporters surrounding the ambitious journalist struggled to keep pace with her long strides, but by the Gods they kept up with her words. 

“… yes, you’re right. I do plan on taking action. I won’t stand to be so abominably abused by a person of such high repute.” 

“Ellaria! Ellaria!” they shouted after her “do you mean to say you’re planning on pressing charges against Mr Lannister?” 

The woman had stopped outside of a prim-looking garden path, leading to an immaculate house. With an almost satisfied smirk cast over her shoulder at the gaggle blindly following her, she’d rang the nell to end Cersei’s life. 

“Immediately.” The front door to her house was promptly slammed in the hordes faces. Cersei paused the screen. 

Number 8. She knew that house. Recognised the green painted portico and the faded brick façade. It wasn’t five streets down from where Jaime lived. The irony that Ellaria and Jaime were neighbours of sorts was not lost on her. 

And now she was trying to ruin his entire career. And if Jaime’s expression as he left the station several days ago was any indication, she could well very succeed in this endeavour. Ellaria posed another issue as well; the presence of Sansa as Jaime was released on bail (though not entirely friendly between husband and wife) was not the step closer to Cersei that Jaime should have been taking. She would be damned if her lover’s arrest only succeeded in throwing him closer to a reconciliation found in Sansa’s too skinny arms. 

And then there was the arrest itself. It still didn’t make sense to Cersei; the behaviour and character of the man she loved was incongruous to the abuse that Ellaria provided such detailed description for. Over the past few days her mind had been ticking, and slowly – so painfully slowly – it drifted closer and closer to one conclusion; that Ellaria was fabricating the entire ordeal. She was an ambitious journalist, working at a mediocre magazine, on a minimal income with a waning audience. This kind of scandal would rocket her to the likes of a weekly broadsheet columnist. Such a high-profile scoop (and from a directly personal viewpoint) would make her career. 

The more and more she thought the more and more she realised how Ellaria Sand had positioned herself as the foundation from which all her current dilemma’s sprouted: the potential that Jaime may be arrested and tried for assault and the consideration that Jaime and his wife may reconcile. Until Ellaria Sand ingratiated herself into Cersei’s life, neither of these was a potential issue. 

The anger descended upon her faster than she was able to gather herself; the drink only serving to heighten her emotional tendencies and now she was consumed by unthinking rage. By what right, did Ellaria have to ruin Cersei’s happiness? By what right did she have to condemn an innocent man? By what right did the sheep judge the lion?

It was these thoughts that ingratiated themselves into the fabric of her mind. 

And soon she was standing outside the house that belonged to Ellaria Sand with nothing but a mask, a baseball bat and her maddening anger. 

If it had been concerning any other man, Cersei Hill would not be in this position. But she had long since accepted that all rationality had left her when regarding Jaime Lannister. He was the key to her happiness, just as she was his. And Ellaria was threatening this, ergo Cersei felt completely justified in attempting to persuade her otherwise.

The night was calm, the inky black further reinforced by copious storm cloud cover and there was a hot electricity in the air that thrummed in her veins and teased the gooseflesh to pucker. She’d found her way into the house via an open window in the back garden, which made it easier for her to enter quietly, rather than ringing the bell and demanding an entrance – which could so easily be refused at the sight of a masked figure with a bat. 

‘ _She’s clearly an imbecile_ ,’ she thought as she looked around the pristine kitchen of Ellaria Sand’s house, ‘ _only a fool would leave a ground floor window open at night_.’ 

_She’ll learn tonight._

There were no immediate signs of anyone awake in the kitchen or the adjacent living room so she continued to scour around, her breath increasingly quickening with panic. Gods she was out of her depth, but she was too far gone to give up now. If she didn’t do this – if she didn’t convince this woman to drop the charges – then Jaime could be lost to her forever. And that was not an option, Cersei would rather die than live in a world where Jaime was not there. She had no intention of harming Ellaria – the baseball bat was acting as both an insincere threat to Ellaria and a defence measure for herself should the woman turn hostile. Determining that there was no one awake downstairs, she crept over to a flight of wooden stairs. It was so quiet, that even her subdued breathing was deafening. Cersei was trying desperately to breathe as little as possible – in case any sounds alerted Ellaria that there was an intruder in her house and she called the police – but all this succeeded in doing was forcing her to run out of breath and increase the sound of her pounding heart. The alcohol in her system was still noticeably present, and she found she was beginning to lose all sense of spatial awareness in her extremities. She took a moment to try and still her trembling hands and regain both her nerves and her anger under control; this had to be handled clinically, just a quick in and out and both Jaime and her would be back together.

_‘For your relationship_ ,’ she reiterated to herself ‘ _for your happiness.’_

She continued onwards up the wooden stairs, ever conscious of them creaking underfoot, her ears narrowing in on the sound of muted voices upstairs. With every squeak of the floorboards, her heart plummeted into her throat, constricting her lungs into a shrivelled heap. The pounding in her head was unravelling her vision at the edges, as if she wasn’t present and was instead viewing her own life through a low quality recording. The detachment disarmed her, throwing her sense of balance off and reducing half her movements to guesswork and prayers, as she reached the top of the stairs and took a pause to steady herself. 

‘ _This wasn’t right, surely she should have more control over her own body than this?_ ’ she mused, anxious that something was about to go completely wrong. 

The panic left her gasping for air through her mouth, her nostrils no longer as fulfilling. She let out a sob, the sudden noise forcing her haggard frame to violently tremble.

_Fuck._

She tried to suppress the sound, by stuffing her hands into her mouth like a scared child, but this only resulted in her dropping the bat onto the wooden floorboards with a resounding racket.

The sounds along the corridor halted instantaneously. 

Within seconds, Ellaria Sand appeared alone in a doorway, draped in just a silken negligee, a TV remote still in hand raised aloft as if to defend herself. The remote fell from her hand, when she saw her. 

The scream she let out at the sight of a masked Cersei scrambling to pick up the heavy baseball bat, was so terrifying it made her feel cold all over, as if she herself was a creature from the seventh Hell come to drag her to her fate. 

“WHAT ARE YOU – “ Ellaria clutched the doorframe of her bedroom, before Cersei could even get a word in “GET OUT. GET OUT GET OUT, I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

Cersei saw red. 

Bat raised aloft she screamed at the woman in response. In her mind, Ellaria had not fought back; she had instead submitted herself to Cersei’s wrath whilst she rained her own justice down on the woman that denied her hers. The act of such defiance was infuriating and Cersei lost all control of her emotions. No longer was she a lioness, all sensual grace and mighty roars. No, now she was a dragon, too lost to the flame of rage to ever be brought back from the precipice. 

“You lied! I know you’re lying bitch!” she hollered out, so loud it echoed around the house. Ellaria stared back in defiance, now leaving her stance at the doorway to approach Cersei, clearly unwilling to back down. This had only made Cersei angrier still. 

“Drop the charges! Drop them or I swear to the Gods-“

“You’re a fucking psycho! I didn’t make up shit, so get the fuck out of my house!”

“Stop it!” Cersei shouted but it was too late, Ellaria had reached out and had grabbed Cersei’s wrists that held the bat. The two of them struggled; Cersei desperately trying to wrench free from Ellaria’s vice-like grip but the alcohol that had given her the emotional strength to be there, failed her physical strength now, and trying to get away was proving difficult. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The shouting had increased the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, so that despite the caterwauling of insults hurled at each other, Cersei could almost hear nothing, so focused was she on the mayhem of her own thoughts. She knew now, just what a mistake turning up here was, Ellaria would never let this go without retribution, but she was powerless to do anything. The job needed to be seen through. 

There was a flash as Cersei saw Ellaria’s leg jerk from the floor to knee her in the stomach. Self-preservation kicked in. Throwing all her weight behind her hands, she twisted her body to avoid the knee and flung her useless form away from her, straight down the stairs. 

Ellaria reached for anything to grasp on – Cersei, the bannister, even the wall - as she fell through the empty air; her eyes bulging out of their sockets in panic, her hair whipping around her face. But Cersei remained unmoving and unsympathetic as her scream consumed the two of them with its ghostly chill. 

There was a sickening crunch as Ellaria Sand’s head hit the corner of the bottom wooden stair and then an almost reverent silence. 

Cersei remained frozen, almost waiting for her to get up; the truth of the situation was yet to sink into her brain. It wasn’t until she saw the blood begin to ooze from beneath that dark hair, that she realised the gravity of what had just happened. 

Nausea hit her like a train, so she sprinted down the stairs – hand clamped over her mouth - past Ellaria’s stone-cold body and into the sink to hurl the contents of her stomach. When she’d finished being sick, she set to work furiously washing and bleaching the basin to remove any traces of her being there. Turning around she stood and faced the situation. 

_What was she going to do?_ She would go to prison, surely. And Jaime would never speak to her again, never look at her, if he realised she’d killed someone. He’d stop loving her. The tears blurred her vision so suddenly, they made it hard to breathe, let alone see and she choked back sobs desperately trying to force oxygen into her lungs. She had to face reality quickly, there was time for tears later. 

The shouting was surely going to have woken someone in one of the neighbouring houses up soon, they’d wonder who Ellaria could have possibly been screaming at.

An idea occurred to her.

There wasn’t a moment to lose. 

If she made it look like a burglary, then the police could possibly rule Ellaria’s death as an accident. Jaime would never find out she was here, or that she witnessed his accuser die, and they could continue their relationship. And as for her, well she’d worn gloves the entire time, and there was no known motive whatsoever for her to stage a robbery. Her eyes searched the living room frantically and she grabbed as many items, as her arms could carry. Then she’d taken the baseball bat and smashed the kitchen window, she’d climbed in through. It was only as she turned to climb through she saw the unlit candles on the windowsill. 

Where there were candles, there would be matches …

… Fire would burn away the evidence. 

Practically throwing the items onto the kitchen table, she frantically combed through every cupboard and every drawer in the nearby vicinity, her hands shaking so badly they could barely grip the handles. When she’d found her prize, she grabbed the kitchen oil from the counter and a bottle of vodka from a nearby wine cabinet and poured them with disdain over every last surface that she had touched - including Ellaria’s body itself.

It took her seven attempts to light the match; her hands were shaking too violently to strike it properly. But when she finally tossed the lit match onto the floor, the alcohol licked the flames up with red-hot intensity. Crazed, she grabbed the items from the kitchen table just in case – an ornate, bronze candelabra, a quartz Qartheen sculpture and an old laptop – and scrambled out of the back window. 

She had no recollection of the bike ride back – a sign that she must have been out of her mind to attempt to drive whilst so inebriated. Her scattered thoughts only recollected themselves into some semblance of order after disposing of the items in a nearby cupboard.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._

She couldn’t stop swearing under her breath – curse the Gods, curse all the Gods who dared put her in this position. Hot tears of fear slid down her cheeks, as she stumbled for the phone only to drop it instantly back into the cradle. She couldn’t tell Melara this; she couldn’t tell anyone this. Ever.

_Whatever had she done?_

At least now Jaime was safe, and if she managed to escape being caught they could resume their relationship. There was no one to press charges anymore, so he was free to live his life the way he used to. There was no longer a chance that his relationship with his wife would be rekindled either. With a tiny miracle, at least her love would be okay.

But her life was far less certain

3 days ago when she had first read that wretched headline, how was she supposed to have known that this would be the outcome. Ellaria wasn’t supposed to die. Why did the bitch have to fucking die?

_This could ruin everything; my love, my career and my sanity._

And as the panic surmounted, she mourned her fate in bitter, strangling tears, awaiting the police to knock on her door. 

/////

**17 Hours Before**

They knocked on someone else’s instead. And Cersei Hill would die, unable to forgive herself or the world. 

/////

**2 Minutes Before**

For someone who had such a beautiful home, Stannis Baratheon was almost never there to enjoy it. 

Cersei perused the kitchen with detachedness, her hands lingering to stroke each surface languidly, revelling in the luxury that life had never been generous enough to afford her. No Judge Baratheon was too concerned with his career, too disinterested in spending time in the place where his marriage was bought to miserable end, too unwilling to look at the daughter that so resembled her mother.

But neither were here right now. No, she was the only one who occupied the space. She looked out at the house that Jaime Lannister used to occupy; it would be just his wife’s now that he had been arrested for murder that morning. And it was all her fault. The police had arrived on his doorstep, less than 2 hours after she had fled Ellaria’s house; he was the only one they could perceive to have such an interest in killing a defenceless woman. The rampage Tywin Lannister had since gone on was apocalyptic; he’d hired the finest lawyers in the capital within 20 minutes of being alerted of his sons second arrest, and then within the next 5 hours had held a press conference demanding his son’s release and his deserved retribution in the form of a public apology. Pointedly, no mention of the dead woman was made. Sansa, herself outside of the police station had begged reporters for a reprieve from their pervasive ubiquity, but it went ignored as they harassed her back to her car and followed her home. The military – in spite of all the good Jaime had done them - had stripped him of his rank and position within the army. 

She’d cost him everything and he knew it. He hadn’t even looked at her as they pushed him from the car through the police station doors, though he knew she was there. Instead, he’d only grabbed Sansa and stroked her beautiful hair as she sobbed into his shoulder, his mouth whispering unintelligible things into her ear. As police officers grabbed his shoulders to haul him into the station he had resisted just to kiss his weeping wife with an unbridled ardour that he had never shown her once in the three years they loved each other. Of all the things that had gone wrong, that had been the final nail in Cersei’s coffin. And that’s when she knew, that this was a fight she could never win, that all her ‘silly’ fears had been confirmed right before her eyes. He may have loved her, but clearly Jaime Lannister loved his wife as well. 

It killed her inside, the knowledge that everything that was real between them; every touch, every glance, every tender whisper, was only half of the man she thought she knew. He fulfilled every aspect of her life, but she was a mere fraction of his. She would have waited for him to be released - that much she knew with every fabric of her being - but only if she knew that he would love her still. And for the first time since those first fragile weeks she doubted as such. 

_‘He didn’t glance at you once, outside the police station,’_ she reminded herself. Which could only mean he either knew what she had done and no longer loved her, or he never cared about her to begin with. Either or, she could no longer live with herself. For the first time in weeks, Cersei Hill was entirely sober, but her thoughts were still of a twisted logic. There was malignant reason behind the thought, corrupted logic to her mourning, irrational sense to her actions. And her mind could only conjure one conclusion.

On some level she was sorry for Stannis and Shireen, to do this to the both of them. They may be so different from her, but their hearts were in the right place. And hers was with their neighbour’s. And if she couldn’t be with him in life, then she would die as close to him – and the lasting remnants of when their relationship was good - as was physically possible. 

The note she posted under Melara’s door was short and brief – two lines at the most. Her friend had long fallen out of favour with her (the judgement had built a resentment neither could no longer overlook) but Cersei acknowledged that she only had her own best interests at heart, even if they were wrong. 

She made her way over to the gas oven, her fingers hesitating over the dials. They paused, and she forced her beating heart to subdue itself. This was the right thing. She could not live in a world where Jaime was not hers, where he hated her. She had ruined his life, she did not deserve to live hers. With this last momentary flux in her resolution over, she fixed her course and turned the gas dial fully open, swung back the oven door and closed all windows and doors in the room.

Cersei worked frantically now. When one dial was not enough, she switched on the gas for the grill. She could smell the toxic fumes now, an uneasy cloying fog that infiltrated the room. Breathing it was easy; each breath furthered her determination. 

Her head started to feel woozy. There was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable, so she lay down on the kitchen floor and anticipated her sweet surrender. 

The dizziness was increasing now. The air had thinned to such an extent that the temptation to take greater breaths was increasing. She fought her survival instincts and tried alternating between gulping large quantities of the poisonous gas before holding her breathe for extended periods of time and found that helped. 

Her senses were dumbed now; all touch and noise cancelled by the lack of oxygen pumping around her system. Cersei absently thought that this was the numbest she’d ever felt. It unsettled her at first, but she found herself enjoying the sensation – she was weightless now. She couldn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in her ear accelerating as her heart worked frantically – uselessly - to sustain her.

_We will be together in the next life, Jaime_

The wooziness took over, as she started to choke on the thin air. The room was spinning too much, it made her feel ill, so she closed her eyes to drown it out. 

She couldn’t breathe.

The sound of blood in her ears increased so that all other noise was drowned out.

Sirens sounded outside the door, but Cersei Hill could not hear them. 

**/////**

**I hope you enjoyed this! It’s about to get real trippy. This small story is based off the film ‘A la folie … pas du tout’ which honestly is still one of the biggest plot twists I’ve ever seen. I had to watch it in school for French, nearly 6 years ago and the story has stayed with me since then despite me never watching it again (until writing this obviously).**

 **This is not written to romanticise suicide. Cersei is written from the viewpoint of someone whose mental health is clearly suffering. Hopefully part 2, and potentially part 3 (I haven’t decided whether to split it into 3 parts yet) will offer further clarification that I in no way support suicide, or the misinterpretation of it in media.**

 **If you are having suicidal thoughts, these are specific hotlines that I highly recommend:**

 **UK**

Samaritans: 116 123  
Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM): 0800 585858 (for men)  
Papyrus: 0800 0684141 (for people under 35)  
Childline: 0800 1111 (for those under 19)  
The Silver Line: 0800 4 70 80 90 (for those who are retired)  
If you are a university student, then contact your campus Nightline. 

**US**  
The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

**Australia**  
Lifeline: 13 11 14  
Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636

**Alternatively, please call your national emergency number.**

**Thank you! x**


End file.
